


Phantom Limb

by LouMakesMeStrong94



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Drunk Harry, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Harry, Pining Louis, Romance, closeting, modest bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3265376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouMakesMeStrong94/pseuds/LouMakesMeStrong94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He missed Louis so bad it hurt.  It was like having a limb cut off.  Harry had read about phantom limb syndrome in amputees.  How patients could still feel the limb they had removed.  How the feeling was more often than not, pain.  That's what it felt like when Louis was taken from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantom Limb

**Author's Note:**

> If you would like some mood music for this fic, check these out:  
> The 1975's cover of "What Makes You Beautiful" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tEVXmzHY1lU (trust me, you'll love it)  
> Louis Tomlinson's cover of The Fray's "Look After You"  
> Ed Sheeran's "I'm a Mess"  
> Emeli Sandé's "Read All About It"

The picture showed Harry stumbling out of yet another nightclub in LA, trailing behind Jeff Azoff. All the tell-tale signs were there: hair falling in his face, glassy eyes turned to the ground and slightly red-rimmed. He was smashed. Again. Louis sighed as he locked his phone, the all too familiar image of Harry, clearly drunk, already burned into his mind. This was the LA routine. Harry was forced to fly half a world away from home just so some paps could get pictures of him out doing mundane day-to-day activities with other celebrities. It was the kind of PR Modest loved to use most. It pushed Harry into the spotlight and kept up his lothario image they had so carefully crafted. If Harry was seen within three feet of a woman, he was romantically connected to her, sending the tabloids and the fans wild. Harry hated it. It was obvious just from the photos. At least it was to Louis. Louis who knew Harry better than anyone. Louis who could see Harry’s misery in the set of his jaw and the slump of his shoulders. Louis who was forced to remain 5,437 miles away from the love of his life. He knew the figure. He had looked it up countless times. He had thought putting a number on the seemingly infinite distance would have helped; he had been very wrong. He looked at the clock on the wall, telling him it was just past noon. It was 4 am in LA. He could try to call Harry but he didn’t want to wake him up. Didn’t want him to be any more miserable than he already was. Louis swiped at the coffee mug in front of him, ceramic shards and cold tea scattering everywhere. He hissed out a shaky breath, clutching his hair as he buried his head between his knees. Tears threatened to spill down his cheeks as he tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. He couldn’t even catch his breath to scream. The ache in his chest for Harry was all-consuming.  
“Fuck it,” he growled, shoving himself off the couch. He scooped up the pieces of the broken mug and mopped up the tea before flinging it in the bin and rushing up to his and Harry’s bedroom, taking the steps two at a time.

 

Harry ran his finger along the rim of his glass, the straw swirling the liquor in his cup like the thoughts in his mind. Another night, another LA club full of faceless people and distinctly empty of the one face he longed for most. On nights like tonight, he hated his life. He hated the fame and the money and everything that came with it. At the tender age of 16, he hadn't realized what he would be giving up to live his dream. Hadn't known that he was signing away his freedom and his right to love on a dotted line. His vodka tonic wasn't helping anything either. He needed something stronger.

Another shot downed and Harry could hardly feel the burn anymore, but the booze wasn’t filling the hole in his chest. He looked around the room, the music thumping loud enough that he felt it in his chest. He watched the throng of bodies moving as one, some couples intertwined in a dance far too intimate for public eyes. Harry hated all of them, he thought bitterly. His brain sluggishly caught up with this thoughts. He wasn’t surprised by his anger. It was a slow burn in his gut, ever-present and begging to be stoked so the flames could burn higher and finally consume him. He felt a white-hot rage well up within him. He desperately pushed away from the bar, needing to escape. Where was he going to go? He hardly knew. He wanted to be home. With Louis. As the name passed through his mind, he felt the fire inside dissipate, replaced by an ache that he had become accustomed to. He shivered, feeling like he had just been dunked in ice water and couldn’t catch his breath. He missed Louis so bad it hurt. It was like having a limb cut off. Harry had read about phantom limb syndrome in amputees. How patients could still feel the limb they had removed. How the feeling was more often than not pain. That’s what it felt like when Louis was taken from him. It was like having a limb ripped from his body, the searing pain at the initial separation that sent his whole body into shock. That part, he could handle. He had become numb to the initial pain, face turned straight ahead, not daring to look back for fear of turning around. It was after, when the wound started to fester that he would start to feel it. Harry’s mum had always scolded him as a child when he picked at a scab. Apparently he hadn’t kicked the habit. Scrolling through his phone, looking at every picture of Louis on it. Rereading old messages. Calling his phone just to get the voicemail and hear his voice. Tears would well up in his eyes at the sound of his boy’s Doncaster accent, the smirk in his tone when he told the caller he would “get back to them if I feel inclined to do so”. Soon, even that pain would fade into something much worse: the phantom limb pain. It was constant. Harry felt it in every breath he took. There was no escaping it. He had gotten good at putting on his mask for the cameras most of the time, but he still couldn’t manage to cover up the blank look he got in his eyes when this ache started. No amount of media training could coach this out of him. He felt a bitter smile stretch across his face when he remembered the time Louis had cursed out their media trainer for telling Harry to stop looking like someone had died in all his pap shots. The smile died when he remembered how management had kept him away from Louis for three weeks after that to remind them who held the power.

 

He flung himself back onto an unoccupied barstool and held his hand up for another two shots. This was his ritual: drink until he was mad, tire himself out with the anger, and then drink until he couldn’t remember. Louis was always there to greet him in his dreams. He would pat his hair and whisper promises in his skin that it would all be over soon. That it wouldn’t be this way forever. They would make it out in the end.

Harry had no doubt in their love but it didn’t stop him from feeling hopeless. He didn’t understand why there had to be any fear that his whole career, their whole career, would come toppling down just because they were in love. It wasn’t fucking fair. He felt hot tears slip from his eyes and angrily brushed them away. If a photo was taken of him like this, it would surely make the headlines. He felt a sob work its way up his throat and he cut it off with another shot. He just needed to drink more. Needed to chase that novacaine-numbness that he so rarely achieved before the bartender cut him off and got Jeff to take him home.

“Give me a round of tequila shots for my friends,” he slurred.

“How many?” The bartender asked him warily.

“Six,” Harry responded. The bartender seemed to know he was lying about them being for anyone else but took pity on him when she saw the tear tracks lining his face.

“Coming right up,” she nodded at him and rushed off to grab their top-shelf tequila.

Harry grunted out a thanks before knocking two back in quick succession. He knew he was getting near a dangerous blood alcohol level, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He could still feel the phantom pain of missing Louis and he would be damned if he didn’t drink until it was gone. He finished the tray of shots just as he caught sight of Nadine.

"Don't get too close, Nadine," Harry laughed darkly. "Don't you know if we're having a conversation we're obviously fucking? Better alert the media." 

"Harry, you know it's not like that," Nadine consoled.

"It is when it's with me," Harry huffed, turning back to the bar. “My whole fucking life isn’t even mine now."

"H, I'm just trying to help,” Nadine tried.

“The only person who could possibly help is across the fucking ocean,” Harry barked angrily. Nadine sighed sadly. She knew Harry’s anger wasn’t really aimed at her. He was just so tired. She waved Jeff over to help her.

“Harry, maybe you should take it easy, buddy,” Jeff suggested gently as he approached, locking eyes with the bartender and shaking his head so she knew not to give Harry anything else. The boy was already tipping off his stool and the last round hadn’t had time to hit him yet.

“m’fine, Jeff,” Harry insisted, rubbing a hand down his face. “Still hurts. I need more.”

“I know, Harry. I know,” Jeff said sadly. He had seen what these extended LA tours did to Harry and he hated it nearly as much. 

“ ‘scuse me,” Harry mumbled, signaling for the bartender again. She looked torn, but Jeff grabbed his friend by the shoulders and hauled him up.

“C’mon, Harry. Let’s get you home,” he coaxed gently. 

“No,” Harry stubbornly shook his head and sat back down, hair flying messily. “I still miss him. I don’t want to feel it, Jeff, please….please, I don’t want to feel it anymore. Feel it everywhere, man. I can’t even fuckin’ breathe. Please.” Tears began to leak from Harry’s eyes and Jeff felt his heart break for his friend. 

“I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so sorry, but I’ve got to take you home. It’s what he would want, right? He wouldn’t want you to be here, drinking yourself into oblivion. C’mon, buddy. Let’s go,” he soothed.

“How would you know what he wants? Isn’t here is he? He’s never here. He can’t be here,” Harry babbled wildly. Jeff glanced around nervously. The last thing they needed was for someone to catch wind of this breakdown. Rumors would fly and Harry would be at the center of a storm. He pulled his phone out and called his driver to come around the back.

“We’re going now, Harry,” he stated, leaving no room for argument. They were starting to attract people’s attention and he had to get Harry out now.

“God forbid they hear any of this,” Harry slurred as he saw Jeff look around the club nervously. “Gotta keep up this act they’ve got me in. Have to play this part they’ve crafted: the perfect little popstar. I’m part of the biggest fucking boy band in the world! Can’t have anyone thinking I’m a fa--” Harry cut himself off as a sob finally broke through. Nadine and Jeff swooped in, grabbing his arms and hauling him up as the sobs overtook him. 

Harry allowed himself to be led out the back of the club. Jeff got him in the car and told the driver where to go. The tears had stopped now. Harry was once again surrounded with the numb pain. His phantom limb.

“You’ll see him soon, Harry,” Jeff tried to reassure. Harry didn’t respond. Just stared blankly out the window, hating the LA skyline for holding him captive.

 

When they pulled up at Harry’s house, he got out of the car without a word. Jeff briefly thought of following him inside but knew there was nothing he could do. He waited until Harry stumbled through his front door and then told his driver to go.

The big house felt even bigger tonight. No voices of friends floating through the high ceiling and certainly no high-pitched, slightly maniacal cackle floating down from the bedroom. Harry sunk to his hands and knees in the middle of the living room, the pain rendering him unable to stand. He let out a broken scream, punching the marble floor with as much force as he could muster in his drunken state. He felt pain race up his arm from the contact. Good. At least it was better than the cold ache in the rest of his body. He punched it again, clinging to the new pain like a life raft. He did it over and over, crying wildly as he felt his skin break. This pain did what the alcohol couldn’t: gave him something else to focus on. He would have done it all night, but the searing pain in his hand was sobering his mind in a way that just wouldn’t do. He gingerly lifted his body from the floor, blood dripping from three of his knuckles and wobbled to the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the cabinet and took a long pull straight from the bottle. The burn in his throat did nothing to numb the pain in his heart. He was beginning to think nothing ever would. Shaking his head desperately, he took another swig, begging his body to just shut off already. He couldn’t take it. Couldn’t bear the pain of being forced away from Louis. His stomach lurched and he gagged, his body trying to rid the toxins he had forced into it. He threw up in the sink and felt tears stinging behind his eyelids. He tried to hold down the contents of his stomach. He didn’t want to sober up. He needed the alcohol, needed any numbness it could provide. His body had other plans. After throwing up twice, his head was swimming and there were dark spots behind his eyes.

“L-lou,” he cried, clutching the counter for all he was worth. He slipped to the floor as the sobs overtook him. “P-p-please….please, Louis. Ne-eed you,” he cried into his arms, curling up on his side. He trembled on the floor as the sobs racked his body. He cried for the four years he had spent loving a beautiful boy that loved him back. He cried for every time Louis had been forced to be seen with Eleanor. He cried for the publicity stunts, the limited interaction, the loss of his best friend and soulmate whenever they were in the public eye. He cried for every day this hell would continue, a hell he wasn’t sure would ever end. He cried so hard he didn’t hear his front door open or the sound of someone slipping off their shoes in the corridor.

“Oh Haz,” Louis whispered brokenly, rushing to his side. Harry sighed with relief. Sleep had finally taken him. Louis was with him when he was dreaming.

“Louis,” he breathed, reaching out to touch him. “Knew you’d come.”

“How could you know that?” dream-Louis asked, forehead wrinkling in confusion.

“ ‘cause you always come when I’m sleeping,” Harry informed him, running his fingers over dream-Louis’s cheekbones.

“Harry, this isn’t a dream, sweetheart,” dream-Louis promised. Harry really wished he would stop frowning. He didn’t want Louis to ever be sad. Not even in his dreams.

“Louis, please don’t frown. We’re together now, even if it’s only in my sleep. You’re here with me like always,” Harry begged, clutching to dream-Louis desperately. Louis continued to frown worriedly and gasped when he saw the blood on Harry’s hand.

“C’mon, babe. I need to clean that up,” he insisted, taking Harry’s hand gently. Harry followed him without complaint.

“Always take such good care of me,” Harry sighed dreamily as Louis led them up the stairs. “Even when I’m sleeping. You always take care of me.”

“I’ll always take care of you, Haz,” Louis said, guilt coloring his tone.

“I know, Boo,” Harry smiled peacefully as they walked into the bathroom, wondering why his dream was making so much sense. Normally by now, Louis was pulling him into a rocketship or taking him cliff diving.

“Hop up, H,” dream-Louis patted the bathroom counter for Harry to sit on. The height looked quite daunting and dream-Louis sighed fondly. He grabbed Harry by the hips and lifted him gently onto the counter. Harry gasped as dream-Louis’s thumbs dug into his hipbones.

“Don’t get too excited,” dream-Louis chuckled. “Just helping you up there.” He shot Harry a cheeky wink. Even in dreams, Louis was still a shit, Harry thought. Dream-Louis walked to the medicine cabinet and grabbed some antiseptic. Harry watched as he poured some on a washcloth before taking his hand gently and dabbing at his knuckles.

“Ouch!” Harry whined, yanking his hand back from dream-Louis. “This is a dream. Dreams aren’t supposed to hurt, Lou.”

“Baby, I’m right here,” dream-Louis assured. “You aren’t sleeping, love. You’re awake and I’m here with you.” Harry eyebrows drew up.

“Don’t tease, Lou,” he begged. “Please, don’t. Know you can’t be here. You told me you had press stuff.”

“Fuck the press,” Louis grinned. It hit Harry like a ton of bricks. Dream-Louis never had quite the shine that real-Louis had when he lit up with mischief.

“Louis,” he sobbed, burying his face in Louis’s neck, reveling in his warmth. He inhaled deeply and smelled their laundry soap and Louis’s musky aftershave. Tears fell freely down his face and the sobs started again.

“Shhhh,” Louis hushed. “Shhhh, Haz. It’s alright, baby. I’m here. Shhhh,” he rocked his body back and forth, trying desperately to sooth the weeping boy in his arms.

“I can’t do it anymore, Lou,” Harry moaned. “ I can’t. Please don’t make me leave you again.” Harry knew he was being irrational, that Louis wasn’t the one who made him leave, but the alcohol was making him delirious. Louis didn’t respond, just gripped him harder and Harry could swear his neck was wet. They stayed there, Harry on the bathroom counter and Louis between the v of his legs for what could have been fifteen minutes or three hours.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Louis whispered, pulling back gently. He pulled away and helped Harry down when he wobbled. Harry let Louis lead him to the bedroom and push him softly on the bed. When Louis started to unbutton Harry’s jeans, the younger boy shot him a hungry look.

“Not tonight, you twat,” Louis laughed brokenly. “You’re stilled pissed out of your mind and I really don’t want you puking on me.”

“Wouldn’t puke on you,” Harry mumbled. Louis gave him a chaste kiss on the mouth.

“Later, love,” he promised, pulling Harry’s tight pants down his legs. Harry tried to unbutton his shirt but his fingers were clumsy. Louis batted his hands away and took his shirt off quickly. Harry stayed where he was while Louis stripped out of his own clothes.

“Will you hold me?” Harry asked.

“Always do, don’t I?” Louis smiled, hopping on the bed and holding his arms out for Harry to climb into. Harry settled against him, the phantom ache finally fading as he was tucked against his lover’s chest.

“Missed you,” he whispered, twining his feet around Louis’s.

“I missed you too,” Louis breathed, pressing a kiss to Harry’s shoulder. “I know you hate this, baby, I do too.”

“Why do they do this to us, Lou?” Harry asked brokenly.

“I don’t know, Harry,” Louis answered, voice small like a child. “I’m going to stop them though,” he promised. “This has gone on long enough. I’m through with them making you like this.”

“Love you,” Harry mumbled, the alcohol pulling him towards sleep.

“I love you too, Harry. I’m so sorry,” Louis whispered into his back. Harry was asleep before he had the chance to respond.

Louis snuggled up to Harry, chasing sleep, but his mind wouldn’t let him rest. The armour he wore in these times began to crumple and he pulled his lip between his teeth to choke back the tears. He was supposed to be the strong one. The one who held Harry together. He didn’t let himself feel the pain. Didn’t go on binges or break down. No. Louis fought tooth and nail every day to keep the emotions at bay. He had to. For Harry. He didn’t get to break, didn’t get to show how close to the edge he was, because he had to make Harry strong when he was weak. His lip trembled and as he felt Harry’s breathing settle out in his sleep, his walls fell down. He tried to keep his sobs quiet so he wouldn’t wake the sleeping boy in his arms. He hated this. How they were forced to hide their love like it was something to be ashamed of. He knew how lucky they were to have found their forever so early in life. Knew how extraordinary it was to even understand what love was at their age. Yet here they were. Hopelessly young and in love, jaded before their time, and still clinging to the hope that it would all be over soon. That was the one thing they had left. That and each other, because they knew this was real. Knew it was worth the constant battle, the heartache. Louis would fight the whole world, one man at a time if it meant he got to keep the man in his arms by his side. He laced his fingers through Harry’s, seeing how the anchor on his wrist lined up with the rope on his own. He felt resolve settle in his chest. This ended. Now. With that hope in mind, his sobs quitened and he gripped Harry tighter. Finally, with the jetlag from his flight and the exhaustion left from the fear of finding Harry bleeding on the floor, sleep took him.

 

The next morning, Louis was on the phone with his lawyer. Harry called Jeff and asked to get in touch with his father. Irving Azoff had his team looking at their contract that afternoon. As Louis went back through the record of his public image and all the instances of slander, Harry held his hand. They weren’t going to lie down and take the abuse anymore. Conversations and arguments they had had with management countless times before replayed in their heads but they weren’t deterred. If they wanted to be together, they would be, consequences be damned. They knew the tide was turned in their favor now, that the public would see the pain they had been put through, how unfair it all was. The other boys would be right by their sides as well; they were sick of their friends being forced into this image that management deemed “marketable.” They had faith in their music--it’s what had made them famous, after all. They were going to fight this and they were going to win this time.


End file.
